Broken
by Windchimes of Maple
Summary: She doesn't scream. She knows she should. But she doesn't. Rated M for Stockholm Syndrome. Warnings inside. Post CoLS.


**A/N: I have a longer AN at the end of the chapter to explain everything. This is just disclaimers and warnings.**

**I do not own the series and work of the Mortal Instruments. The recognizable characters belong to Cassandra Clare. I own plot, original characters and intellectual property.  
**

**WARNINGS: Non-con/Dub-con sexual activity (not crudely described), kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome. Set after City of Lost Souls.  
**

* * *

_Sometimes I wish for falling_  
_ Wish for the release_  
_ Wish for falling through the air_  
_ To give me some relief_  
_ Because falling's not the problem_  
_ When I'm falling I'm in peace_  
_ It's only when I hit the ground_  
_ It causes all the grief**  
**_

_- Florence and the Machine, Falling  
_

* * *

**Day One**

She doesn't scream. She knows she should. But she doesn't.

**Day Five**

The walls are covered with something she doesn't know the words for – it isn't slime and it isn't dirt, and she shudders to think that it might be something she doesn't want to think of. The shackles around her wrist aren't really shackles; they are fiery products of an entrapment rune which she cannot remember. The dress she was wearing isn't a dress anymore. It is so ripped and torn, uncovering parts of her that should be covered, that it is more like a worn scrap wrapped around her body. Her hair was up last she remembers, but it is tangled and sweaty and itching on her neck. She hasn't eaten in days, and there is no window so she can't tell how _many_ days. She's used the corner of the room to throw up in, to urinate in, but now she hasn't even got anything within her to expel out.

She still hasn't figured how she's going to get out. She isn't even trying. Jace would not be proud of her. She isn't thinking like a Shadowhunter should. She's thinking how a little scared girl would.

And that's exactly what she is.

A scared little girl.

**Day Eleven**

There is something dripping on her face and she sincerely hopes it is water. Her vision is a blur because she hasn't eaten much. They serve her food – decent food – but she chooses to eat bare minimum. There is a light shining in her face, like witchlight, and a halo of blond hair and her heart jumps and squeals and she tries to get up but she cannot.

"Jace?" her voice rasps, and she feels a smile coming onto her face. _You found me, you found me, I love you, you found me._

There is a sigh and a calloused finger stroking her cheek and she leans into it. "Oh, Clary," the voice says and the face moves closer. Her blood is running cold because it's the _wrong blond_. She tries to scramble backwards but he won't let her.

And then she's shaking. She's shaking and writhing and crying and she's trying to scream but no noise is coming out of her mouth. She tries to shy away from him because he smells wrong – he smells like evil – and he holds her tightly, too tightly to himself. For a second she almost believes he's embracing her, but then his hands are moving to the entrapment rune to retrace it.

"Jace," she repeats, mumbling into his shoulder because it's the only name she can remember.

"Oh, Clary," he repeats, whispering into her ear. "He's not coming."

**Day Nineteen**

They've removed her entrapment rune but it's only because she's too tired to move. The room is escape proof, and she's sure there's a rune outside it to prevent her from leaving. She doesn't care because her hands are free. She runs them down her body; her skin looks the wrong color. Her dress is now a second skin, and it doesn't matter that it's tight and sequined. It doesn't smell like Isabelle's wardrobe anymore. The witchlight shines off it, sending dazzling reflections in her eyes and she shies away. _Pandemonium, _her mind cries. That's where she'd meant to go. The club. Not this literal place of chaos.

He's standing in front of her with his arms crossed, and he's dressed in all black. It makes her heart ache more but she doesn't know why. He moves towards her and she expects his boots to click on the stone floor. But he's moving as silent as the wind and it scares her. He kneels in front of her, and she can't recognize the look in his eyes, but she doesn't like it.

"Are you hungry?"

She doesn't answer.

"Do you want something?" he asks. She whimpers and looks away. She wants to stand up to him. She's stronger than this. She isn't supposed to be a frightened victim. She's a warrior.

"Do you want me to get you new clothes?" She shakes her head. She feels naked, but she can't lose all she has left of wherever she's from.

He reaches out but she flinches and he stops halfway. She didn't expect him to but he does. Then he seems to reconsider, and tucks a piece of her hair behind her head. She doesn't like it. He's supposed to be a monster. Why isn't he acting like a monster? He isn't supposed to be nice. He isn't supposed to be like this.

"Why?" she whimpers, and she's unsure what she's questioning exactly.

"Why what?" he whispers, keeping his hand just millimeters from her cheek. She can feel its warmth on her skin. He isn't supposed to be warm.

He clenches his jaw at her silence and leaves. For a second she wonders why and then remembers he'd asked her a question which she had no answer to.

**Day Twenty Three**

If she didn't know it had been nearly a month since she was abducted, she knew it now. Staring at the red stickiness between her legs, she curls up, pushing herself inwards as if she hopes to disappear altogether. She tries to fall asleep but the pain curling inside her abdomen keeps her awake.

**Day Twenty Four**

The blood doesn't come back this time, only the dry remnants of the previous day and then no more. She wonders if her insides are broken now too.

**Day Thirty Seven**

This time there's light strewing through the door. Not witchlight, but real light – it's actually a lamp, but she doesn't care - and she pushes herself towards it like a flower turns towards the sun. "Clary…," comes his voice, in a sing song whisper and she gulps. He sounds seductive and dangerous and she wants to run away.

"Clary, come on. It's been over a month. Won't you co-operate?" he asks from somewhere beside her and she jumps, seeing him looming over her. She didn't even see him walk in.

"What do you want from me?" she says, except her throat is dry and it comes out as a garbled mess.

"I'm starting to get impatient, little sister. If I wanted a prisoner, I would've picked filth off the road," he says.

What _do_ you want?, she wonders but she doesn't say. There's a clicking sound, and there's the sound of heels on the stone floor and she looks up. A woman is standing in front of her, a small bag clasped under her arms. She looks towards Jonathan and then moves towards Clary. He walks out the door, leaving her with the woman. The woman unzips the bag and pulls out a comb and some clothes and fresh underwear. She expected something raunchy but it's a simple cotton bra and panty set. The woman offers them to her but she doesn't move.

Making an impatient sound, she starts removing the straps down Clary's arms. And she feels violated and she kicks out, lashing, but the woman is much much stronger than her. She pins her down before cutting off the dress and undergarments from Clary's body and throwing them in a pile in the corner. She then takes a wet wipe and wipes most of the grime off Clary's body. By now Clary has given up fighting it – she shouldn't, but she has – and the woman forces the new clothes onto her. She doesn't know what they look like, but she doesn't feel too exposed so she doesn't panic yet. There is something tugging at her hair and then it's pulled back into a ponytail.

"Stand," the woman says. Clary doesn't comply. The woman clicks her tongue and digs her claw like fingers into Clary's arms and yanks her up. Given how sickly she's become, she goes up easily as a doll, rattling about.

"Easy, Simone," he says, and she realizes he's back. Her mind is stuck on the woman's name. Simone. Simone. Simon. Her best friend, Simon. The claw like grip is removed from her hand and a warm one replaces it and she follows blindly. She doesn't take in her surroundings. She's given up the idea of running away by now. Bright light hits her and this time it's real sunlight. She wants to bask in it but it's been far too long. Her eyes burn, her head hurts and she curls away into the nearest thing: which is her brother.

His arm goes around her, but she can tell he isn't looking at her. His stance is a little stiff, as if he doesn't expect her to turn to him and she doesn't blame him because she doesn't expect it either. Five seconds it's been in his arms and she wrenches herself away, preferring the blinding light to his all consuming darkness.

When her eyes adjust and she turns to look at him, he's already staring at her. His face is expressionless, but his eyes are dark, like vacuum. He nods and then pulls her along again, this time only grabbing her wrist. She follows.

The house is huge, but her eyes aren't on it; only on the hallway he's leading her down. "Our rooms are over here," he said and she freezes in place. Her heart is pounding in her ears and her throat is closing up and she can't move. He stops and turns to look at her, frowning. "Clary –" he starts but the way he says her name has her breaking. She's sobbing, clawing at his hands to let her go.

"NO!" she shrieks, and it's the first time she's been that loud. Her throat feels like somebody sliced a knife through it. His hand is removed and she's falling backwards, crashing into the wall. She turns over on her knees and crawls towards where she came from, but he grabs her ankle and drags her back.

"CLARY!" he shouts, irritated as he easily overpowers her in her weak state. Grabbing her by the waist, he's got her in his arms, a cage around her and she struggles.

"No, no, no, please, no, no," she chants, tears spilling out of her eyes and when she catches her look in the mirror on the wall, they look like cracked emeralds.

"Stop fighting me," he whispers in her ear and it's sharp and she's squirming away from him.

"No, no, no," she keeps chanting, grappling. Like a whip, he pushes her forward and yanks her back. This time, she's facing him. His hands are on her arms and he's holding her so tightly that her feet are almost off the ground. If he wasn't holding her so still, she'd be shaking.

"No," she mumbles again and he hisses.

"Calm the fuck down," he spits. "There's going to be a door between the rooms. I'm not about to jump you," he says, pushing her away roughly and she's left unbalanced for a few seconds. He doesn't wait for a reply and she doesn't wait to process a reaction. He sets off, expecting her to follow.

She follows.

**Day Fourty Four**

"Eat."

Silence.

"Clary, eat your food."

Silence.

"Clarissa."

Silence.

"I made it myself, you know. For you."

Silence.

"Taste it at least."

Silence.

"Okay, I know I'm not very good at cooking. It might not be that good."

Silence.

"I can make you grilled cheese sandwiches later, if you're not going to eat now. I make those very well."

She vomits, right there, beside her seat.

**Day Fifty One**

She's standing in front of the mirror, the door to the room locked. There's only one way out of the room and that's through the door which leads to his room. She chooses not to go through it. Her clothes are nondescript. If she didn't know any better, it would be as if he transported her old wardrobe here for her – wherever here was. She's staring at the mirror. Her hair is cut shorter, just below her shoulders now and it's messy and wet. Her shirt hangs loose, and her sneakers are snug but it's okay. That's not what she's inspecting. Her eyes roam her skin, so pale now from the lack of light that her dark runes stand harsh against it. They don't look like heavenly art on her body, rather like messy scrawls on her flesh. Her body weight is reduced, but he's forcing her to eat almost every meal now so it's beginning to come back. He doesn't let her train and the only outside time she gets is a ten minute walk through the lawn where she's watched over by him and three guards.

Her hand goes to the mirror, tracing the outline of her face. She swallows. Her neck muscles strain as she does and the customary cool metal she's used to, is gone. Her necklace with the Morgenstern ring, which Jace gave her. Jace.

The thought of his name, which is always echoing through her mind, rips through her and she falls to her knees, hugging her body. She's weak, she's so weak and she doesn't deserve this. Everything he taught her, she's forgotten in her fear and she's remembering all the reasons she didn't want to be a Shadowhunter. Every trick he taught her is useless on her limbs now.

"Jace," she whispers, tucking her chin into her chest as she curls up on the floor. "Where are you?"

_He's not coming._

And she sobs.

**Day Fifty Seven**

She's allowed twenty minute walks now.

She chooses to go at night and stare at the moon, telling herself that somewhere, Jace is staring at the same moon too.

**Day Seventy Three**

"Do you want to go out?" he asks her. They're sitting in the study, which is another room on the opposite side of their hallway – _their_ hallway; it makes her skin crawl. He's got a thick book in his hands and he's stretched out on the couch which is against the far wall. She's curled up on the window seat, staring at the butterflies fluttering in the sunlight. She turns to him and hears him suck in a breath. She frowns, not understanding the look on his face.

"Your hair," he mumbles. She reaches up to touch it, but it feels normal. "It's like a halo," he whispers and she looks away. Her cheeks feel warm but they shouldn't. She hears shuffling and when she looks back, he's sitting in front of her, kneeling on the ground so that their eyes are almost the same level.

"Why are you keeping me here?" she asks. He ignores her and softly touches her cheek.

"You're my family, Clary. You're all I have. I'm all you have," he says, leaning closer, as if to make her understand. She pulls backwards, her back hitting the window pane. A rare flash of burning anger claws inside her. It surprises them both.

"You're not all I have. I have friends, and a family and a boyfriend and you're keeping me away from them," she snaps.

"They don't care about you. I care about you."

"They love me."

"Then why haven't they tried to find you yet?"

She turns away because she doesn't know what to say. A soft thump is felt at her feet, and she sees a book. It's thin compared to most novels, probably a 100 or 120 pages.

"Here, read it," he says and walks out. "We're not going out today," he says, shutting the door behind her and she is sure she hears a lock click in place. She studies the book before picking it up.

'The Beautiful Between' it says and she turns it over, to read the synopsis. There isn't one, except a twisted quote in cursive.

'_Maybe the witch thought she was protecting Rapunzel, not punishing her. Maybe she thought that if Rapunzel was locked away, no one could ever hurt her. Maybe the witch kept Rapunzel because she loved her, because she was scared that if other people could get to Rapunzel, they would hurt her. And maybe Rapunzel didn't understand the witch; maybe she was angry at her – but maybe she loved her, too._'

She feels nauseous again, and she throws the book away. It makes a satisfying noise as it hits the window. She'd hoped it would tear against the harsh glass. She doesn't want to read such – the glass. She looks up, her hands flying to the window. She doesn't remember if he drew a rune on her, just that he physically locked her in. Maybe this was her way out. She turns back to the door, to see if she can hear anything but there's only silence. Pushing herself off the window seat, she walks to his desk. There's nothing potentially dangerous, but the chairs are. His chair is too heavy to lift, but the two opposite ones aren't. Pulling all her strength into her arms, she lifts one up and hurtles it towards the window.

There's a satisfying commotion as splinters of wood, cushion and shards of glass crash outwards. She doesn't care if it's a harsh drop, probably ten feet, but it's now or never. She swings herself over the ledge, ignoring the shards slicing into her arms and jumps.

She knows she's supposed to tuck her body in, drop and roll. But her jeans leg catches on one of the shards and she flails before crashing to the ground. Pain shoots up her ankle, blinding her. Her leg feels like it's on fire and she can't think for a second or two as she rolls on the ground, crying in agony. But this is her one chance, so she sucks it up and drags herself to the gates. She knows where they are by now, having taken enough walks. Her body, rushing with adrenaline, feels like she's racing against time.

She's free.

She's free.

She's free.

Turns out, she hasn't moved twenty feet before arms grab her and restrain her. She screams, a cry of helplessness and agony as she tries to fight back but it's in vain. "LET ME GO!" she shouts, trying to run but there's too many people holding her down. Her fist flies, punching somebody and comes back bloody. Her kicks seem to hit bone and flesh and there are cries of irritation and pain. She's fighting back but she's useless.

A familiar pair of arms – shehatesthatit'sfamiliarnow – wrap around her and she's being thrown over his shoulder. She thumps his back, hitting it again and again until he roars in annoyance and throws her down. Pain flairs up her leg again.

"You stupid, stupid little bitch," he spits, towering over her. "What the fuck were you thinking? Did you want to break your pretty little neck? All you have to do is ask, I would've snapped it ages ago," he fumes, red splotches standing out on his pale skin. His eyes are burning.

"I want to go home!" she shouts back, trying to kick his ankle with her good leg but he sidesteps easily.

"You wanna run?" he asks, grabbing a fistful of her hair. "You wanna get away from me? Fine!" he says. He takes out his stele and sketches an iratze on her forearm. Relief floods her body and then he's pulling her up and shoving her towards the gates.

"Go. Get out. GO!" he says. "Nobody follow her!" he tells the guards, who all look confused. She looks confused too, standing there with her arms useless. Is this a trick? She can't tell. There could be any trap waiting for her.

Unless, she thinks, he's attempting to use reverse psychology on you and hoping you stay.

Before that thought is even complete, she's turning and running out.

x-x

There's nothing for miles. She figures this out, but she's run so deep into the surrounding plains that she doesn't even know the way back. She doesn't have a stele, so she can't portal her way out. She has no money. She would flag down a car, except there's no road. She reaches a meadow, the sun shining harshly down on her. Sweat drips down her neck, her shirt is stuck to her back and her bra tag is digging into her flesh, itching her. She turns around on the spot, helplessness and frustration bubbling inside her. She wants to run but there's nowhere to run. She wants to call somebody but there's no phone. She's going to die. She can see the horizon from side to side but there's nothing. Nobody to save her, nobody to help her. She's going to die.

"HELP ME!" she screams, to the air, to the winds, to the grass. "HELP ME! PLEASE, I AM BEGGING! PLEASE!" she cries, falling to her knees. Her fingers dig into the dry mud – no water source nearby either – and she pounds the ground. What sort of Angel is she praying to if nobody can even come and help her? "Please," she mumbles into the ground.

x-x

She passes out just as the sun is dipping.

x-x

Arms are around her holding her up and she hovers between consciousnesses. There is the sharp smell of citrus which is both masculine and distracting. Soft lips press against her temple. "I told you Clary. I _am_ home."

She faints again, the last thought on her mind being that maybe evil isn't all he smells like.

**Day Eighty One**

She wants to use the bathroom, but ever since her little stunt, hers is closed off. She has to use his and so she plucks up her courage and wrenches open the door between their rooms. Her body freezes in shock. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, his shirt removed. His pants are unbuckled and low on hips. But anything she shouldn't see is obscured by the half naked woman who is sitting on his lap, wantonly grinding into him. Her mouth drops open and then closes again, but neither takes notice of her. The woman is in a short skirt, hiked up to her hips and her leopard print bra is barely stopping anything from spilling out.

"I – I – have to use the bathroom," Clary stammers, but again, she's unheard. She presses into the wall, keeping her eyes on the bathroom, but unable to not watch them from the corner of her eye. They're making disgusting sounds and moans and just as the woman pushes him onto the bed, she scurries into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Her cheeks feel flushed, as does her neck and she opens the faucet, splashing water onto her face. What the hell was that? She swallows, noticing her scandalized expression in the mirror.

Of course, she's scandalized. She's his sister, right? She should be. Her mind unwillingly jumps to the time he'd kissed her in Idris, how he'd moaned the same way into her mouth. She feels nausea bubble inside her at her line of thought and she takes a deep gulp of water from the bottle kept on the counter. She'd tried to drink from the faucet before but it had been too hard.

She washes her face, finishes what she came to do but the noise of bedsprings makes her stop. She can't go out. She doesn't know what's happening outside. She can't bear to walk out now. Unlocking the door, she leaves it closed as she sits on the ground, against the tub. She can hear them moaning and she covers her ears, burying her head into her knees as she rocks back and forth and thinks of Jace and New York. Jace, Jace, Jace. Where was he? Had he thought she'd left him? Did he even know where she was? If he knew he would've found her by now. Please Jace, she thinks, please come get me.

The door opens and she jumps, looking up. Sebastian is standing there, his pants on but riding low and his shirt hastily thrown on and unbuttoned. She averts her eyes from the runes and abs, glaring at his face instead.

"Leave," he barks. She doesn't move. He waits for a minute, but she doesn't budge. "You know what, fine. If you wanna ogle me while I do my business, go ahead," he says as he unzips his pants and puts up the toilet seat.

"Why did you do that?" she demands."Sick freak," she retaliates.

He turns to her, eyes wide. It's the first words she's spoken to him since she tried to run away. "You know I could walk in any minute."

"It's my room. I'll do whatever the hell I want to!"

"It's my room too!" she cries back.

He raises a brow, a sneer on his face. "Presumptuous, are we? I don't think so."

"I have to pass through it to do everything. The least you could do –"

"The least I could do?" he shouts, an unbelievable sort of note to his voice. He steps forward. "I have given you everything! Food, shelter, affection, clothes. Never have I mishandled you except when you did the one stupid thing you could do. Don't tell me what's the least I could do!"

She stands up, livid, and pushes him hard. He staggers back into the sink. "I'm your prisoner! This is jail for me! So yes, there are multiple things you could do for me, like letting me out, for instance? Until then, refrain from using me as a voyeur, even if it gets you off," she shouts before running out the bathroom and into her room. She kicks the door shut and collapses onto the bed.

A fit of sobs overtake her and she cries into the pillow.

She just doesn't know why she's crying.

**Day Ninety Six**

She's sitting on the blanket and rocking back and forth again. Her eyes are on the birds nest which is on the tree above her. He's sitting beside her, his head resting on a small cushion and his knees bent. His eyes are closed and a book lies open on his chest. He isn't snoring. She pretends she's alone, even though she can practically feel the watchful eye of all the guards crawling over the property.

"Stop. You'll wear an ass sized hole into this blanket," he mumbles and she turns to him. His eyes are still closed but his breathing isn't deep and even anymore. She curses under her breath. He can't even let her have her one day out in peace. It's a luxury to let her be out for this long, even if she's forced to be with him.

"Why do you hate me so much?" he asks and she gapes at him. "I mean," he says, turning to her. "Aside from the obvious."

"The obvious is enough," she whispers, but he shakes his head. The book falls off his chest as he turns to lie on his side, his head propped on his palm.

"No…you hated me even before. When you didn't know who I was. You weren't comfortable around me in Idris, even before you found out what I'd done. Why?" he asks. She doesn't give an answer, pulling her knees closer to her chest.

"I'm trying here, Clary. The least you could do is talk to me. I'm the only one you have and you can't be silent forever," he says. She still doesn't say anything. He sits up, leaning into the tree bark as he scoots closer. She cringes.

"Let's play twenty questions."

Her head whips back to him and she growls, tears blurring in her eyes. "You think this is funny? This whole bonding thing you're trying to do?" she asks.

"No, I'm not laughing. Was that your first question?" he smirks. She makes an irritated sound.

"You're my jailer. You'd do well to remember that."

"I'm not your jailer," he says and for a second she believes he's actually hurt. "I wasn't lying when I said you're all I have. You asked me once who I belonged to and I told you, I belonged to you."

"And yet you're hell bent on possessing me."

This time, he's the one who has no answer.

**Day One Hundred and Eleven**

The night is cold, chilling in fact, and her gown is too flimsy to keep it at bay. Her windows are open and the curtains are fluttering. She's lying on her bed, shaking and crying. He hadn't specifically told her the date today, but she'd overheard one of the guards talking about some game they were missing and she'd started crying. It is supposed to be her birthday. Her eighteenth birthday. She is supposed to go take everybody to Luke's farmhouse outside the city and then spend the whole night with Jace. Today is her day and it's ruined. She muffles her sobs in her pillow. It has been over three months since she's been here, yet every moment feels like it was only yesterday that she was being ripped away from Alec and Isabelle and Jace and Simon and Magnus by the monsters and being hurtled through the portal.

"Jace," she mumbles into her pillow. "Jace, I miss you. I love you, please come to me," she says. She thinks of how her mum and Luke must be holding up and her sobs become worse. She can't breathe with the pain flaring inside her chest. Sobs turn into gasps, gasps turn to breathlessness and breathlessness turns to panic. She tries to sit up, to breathe but she can't. Black spots dance in front of her vision and she feels like she is drowning. Maybe she's finally dying. Maybe the Angel finally took mercy on her.

Images flash before her eyes. Her as a child, her with Luke and her mum and Simon, the Lightwoods, Tische, Art classes, runes, Idris, the subway, New York, Church, Magnus, Chairman Meow, the training room, her stele, Jace, Jace, Jace, Jace.

"I love you," she mumbles, unsure who she's saying it to, who she means it for. Two dark orbs come into her vision and she wonders if this is what darkness feels like. But they turn out to be worried eyes and she sees the streak of pale, white blond.

"Breathe Clary," he says, grasping her shoulders. Her head moves from side to side, frantic and he nods, pulling her up against his chest. His hold is like a vice, but the pain of it keeps her awake. "Breathe with me," he says and she doesn't want to do _anything_ with him. But her lungs follow the rise and fall off his chest until she calms down, gulping life source. His hand runs through her hair.

"Shh…you're okay," he mumbles and she cries again, a whimper instead of a sob. "Do you know what day it is? It's your birthday. Happy Birthday Clary, Happy Birthday," he whispers, kissing her head as if he's providing comfort via distraction.

"Will you give me a present?" she asks. The chin resting on her head digs in, nodding and she pulls back. He looks into her eyes, reaching for the light on her nightstand and clicking it on. The pale yellow washes over them and she sees his half smile.

"Anything," he says, before he falters and his eyes grow cold. He pulls back but she moves along with him, her hands still curled in his shirt. She doesn't even realize she's grabbed onto him. "No, Clary. Anything but that."

"Please, please, please Jonathan," she says. He starts, hearing his name, his real name fall from her lips. "Please let me go home."

His hands grab her wrists and yank her forward and she falls into his embrace, ungracefully. "Ask me anything but that."

"But I thought you said you belonged to me."

"I do, Clarissa, I do."

"Then please let me go," she begs. He clenches his teeth, getting off the bed abruptly and pushing her away. She falls into a heap over her comforter.

"I said no!" he snaps, before walking out and slamming the door shut.

**Day One Hundred and Thirty Eight**

They sit at the breakfast table at silence, the only sound being the knives and forks being used. Once again, he's insisted silently on her finishing her meal, so she's taken little to start with. Simone sits across from them. From what Clary's gathered, she's his secretary or slave or something along those lines, she doesn't know for sure. Just that she was trusted in his books and she is always the one who is directed to Clary or vice versa when Clary is angry at him. Which is basically, always. She isn't paying attention to their conversation at all, just watching a colony of marching ants at the windowsill. They work together, walking in straight lines, avoiding running into each other. Helping each other. Like Shadowhunters, in a way. She watches one tiny ant climbing up along the grills – which had been placed on all windows for her 'sake'. But before it can reach halfway, it falls. It doesn't slip or stumble, it literally falls. She doesn't know why, but she giggles. It isn't even that funny, but the childish, girly sound escapes her before she can stop it. The noise of cutlery stops and she feels a pair of surprised eyes on her.

It's the first time she's laughed.

She turns back to them and the expression on their faces are enough to make her giggle turn into peals of laughter. She's near hysterical as she clutches her stomach and keeps laughing, her entire body shaking. "S- sorry, I didn't mean to-" she tries, but she soon starts laughing again, her palm slamming on the table with mirth.

She pretends she doesn't feel the heat of his gaze on her face as she keeps rolling around.

**Day One hundred and Sixty Seven**

She wakes up to the sound of a distinct crash in the opposite room. Her hand flies to her chest, to stop her thudding heart as panic and hope fly through her in equal measures. Her first thought is that they're being attacked. The only people who will attack here are on her side and she throws herself out of bed. She's only wearing a thin, white nightie which could rip in shreds with one force. Useless in a fight, but she doesn't care. They're here, they're here, they'll rescue her. She yanks open the door attached to his room and freezes. There's no swarming Shadowhunters, there's no combat going on. No Alec with his bow and arrow or Izzy with her electrum whip. It's just silence and sharp splinters of wood. His nightstand lies in pieces on the floor, and there's two overturned bottles of whiskey. One is empty, the other isn't, but all the alcohol has spilled out. He sits on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands as his shoulders shake. For one panicked second she thinks he's crying.

But her mind is not on that. There's no rescue team. There's nobody to save her. Useless tears sting her eyes. It's her own fault, for having so much hope.

"What do you want?" he slurs and she's pulled out of her reverie to look at his bloodshot eyes. She can't tell if it's because of the tears or the drinks but she shakes her head.

"I h-heard something break so I – I –"

"You what?" he says. "You came to see if everything was okay? Like you give a single fuck."

"I – I don't – I should go," she turns around and then hisses in pain. She's stepped on a splinter and it slices into her heel. She can feel it digging into her skin and she lifts her foot, reaching for the door to balance herself on.

"Son of a - why the hell do you have to be so clumsy?" he barks, walking up to her in two strides, grabbing her arm and throwing her onto the bed. She lands with a huffing sound but he's already moved to the bathroom. Thirty seconds or so later, he's out with tweezers and a needle and he's kneeling in front of her, making sure he's nowhere near wood or glass. He hoists her foot up and she yelps, kicking him away and shutting her knees.

"What are you doing?" she hisses, heat flooding her cheeks from embarrassment and anger.

"Helping you," he says, ignoring her protests and hoists her leg up again, not so high this time. He stares at her foot, leaning in to see how many splinters there are before he takes the needle and starts jabbing it into her heel.

"Ow, ow, ow," she says.

"It's not even touching you," he says. His breath ghosts over her foot in a ticklish manner and she inhales sharply. His eyes fly up to hers, as if reading her mind. She swallows under his gaze, a weird sort of nervousness entering her. Before she can question it, he yanks the splinter out. She cries out, not expecting it, and she falls forward, her hand moving to his shoulder to steady herself. His muscle ripples underneath the nails she's dug into his skin.

"Don't have to be so violent," he sneers, shrugging his shoulder as he moves to remove another smaller splinter.

"How are you even –" she hisses as he yanks it out "-sober enough right now to do this? You should be seeing double vision."

"Who said I'm drunk?" he asks, tossing aside the needle and tweezers.

"Wha – but, the bottles –"

"Just because I threw them around doesn't mean I drank any."

"But your eyes are all red," she blurts out before clamping her mouth shut. Why had she said that?

"I see you noticed," he says, and she's suddenly very very aware of the fact that her leg is hoisted up to his chest level and her hands are on his shoulder. His gaze is steady on her, his hand wrapped around her ankle. She doesn't even get a chance to interpret. He pulls on her ankle, pulling her forward and he's between her legs, his lips on hers- lips nearly the same as hers.

Her eyes shut of their own accord, but her body is stiff. His isn't. It's bent and rigid at the same time, curving into her, his arms wrapped around her tightly as if trying to make her yield along with his. His mouth is moving hard and fast against hers and she doesn't respond. She can't respond. But she doesn't fight him either. Her mind screams at her to push him off, to kick him, to do something but god it's been too long and he's holding her just right. His hands fist in the curls of her hair, pulling her forward and she feels every inch of her body pressed into his. His tongue slides into her mouth, tasting her and she makes a sound somewhere between a frightened squeak and a pleading whimper.

Suddenly, she's flat on her back and her nightie is hitched high. Her knees stay pressed together and he pulls back, his legs on either side of her body before he wrenches her knees apart and attaches his mouth to hers again. "Jonathan," she mumbles against his mouth but he isn't listening. Her hands move to his shoulder to pry him away but he grabs her wrists and pins them over her head. Panic sets in and her eyes fly open. She tries to pull away but he's too heavy and she's too drained.

"Jonathan," she says, louder, but his lips pull hers apart as he explores her mouth in a haze of teeth and tongue. His hand moves under the edge of her nightie and she's mentally shrieking because oh-god she's not wearing a bra under this thing. And then he's gone. She's staring at the ceiling, her mind a haze and her hands shaking. She looks around, but he's bent over the collection of wood which was his nightstand. She thinks she's free to go, to repent her lack of refusal but suddenly he's turned around, chucking a square package on the bed. She stares in horror as he removes his shirt and then his trousers fall to the floor. Her mind doesn't even take a minute to notice his body, or the scars and whip marks before he's on her again with a new vigor.

"No, Jonathan, stop," she shouts, pushing him away and scrambling backwards. But she's only moving further onto the bed and he's just stalking her until he's got her pinned to the headboard.

"Stop fighting it, Clary. Can't you feel it?" he whispers, his lips ghosting over her neck. They're barely touching but she feels them and she doesn't like it.

"No, I can't," she says and suddenly his blunt teeth and lips clamp down on her collar bone, sucking harshly. She cries out as she tries to push him off, but he's too strong. His hands once again pin her wrists but this time he's prepared. Grabbing his stele from the other, still standing, nightstand he draws a rune on her wrists. She tries to move, but she can't.

Immobile.

"NO!" she shouts as his fingers deftly press along her thigh, resting on the edge of her panties. "NO, JONATHAN STOP IT," she says, but she's shut up with another bruising kiss which leaves her writhing in a horrifying mixture of pleasure and agony. Agony at the pain, agony at humiliation and agony because she shouldn't be feeling pleasure but she is. No, no, no her mind says, but her hormones fluctuate, making her skin crawl.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbles against her skin, pressing his fingers deep into her hips before her panties are torn in half and chucked across the room. She cries out as tears pour from her eyes but she knows it's useless. He will get what he wants, even if she's forced to give it.

"Shhh, my Clary, shh," he says and his voice is so soft and so loving and so soothing that she wonders if this is even real, if he's even real.

"I won't hurt you," he says and he pulls back to stare at her. She's refusing to look at him, tears welling in her eyes but he tips her chin towards him. A soft kiss is pressed to her lips, then to her chin, cheeks, temple, forehead. It's almost reverent. But then he's kissing her harder and he's moving with an unimaginable speed.

A useless trivia jumps to her mind, about how women in the Victorian age were told that on the night of their consummation that they had to lie still and think of the Empire. And so she does just that. She closes her eyes and thinks of Idris.

Everything is a blur after that. She remembers crying out, shrieking, screaming his name from the pain. She remembers his black, black eyes hovering over her with an unreadable emotion; her body curving into his despite her not wanting it to. And she remembers reaching a peak of a pleasure she didn't ask to feel.

Oh god, she's a monster. What sort of monster enjoys being raped? The details are a blur and she cries and cries and cries until he's done. Even then she cries.

He's lying still against her chest, his soft hair tickling the skin there. He's completely naked, but she's only half; her nightie is still intact while her bottom half is naked. Jace. Her first time was supposed to be with Jace. Not like this. Not against her will. Not with her brother. She feels bile clawing into her throat but she holds it down. A fury and hate so strong sweep through her that she shudders. "Please let me go," she whispers coldly, and he brings his stele to draw the opposing rune. Her hands fall slack, as does her weight. She's quickly getting up, pulling her clothing down but his hands are on her, pulling her back.

"Don't leave," he says, sitting up while holding her body. It's at an awkward angle but he doesn't seem to care.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbles against her skin. She curls her body trying to shy away. "You really are an angel, you know that? Clarissa Morgenstern, you are an angel," he whispers, pressing a kiss under chin.

"I'm no angel," she says for the second time in her life, wrenching her arms away and fleeing from the room.

No, she really isn't.

**Day One Hundred and Sixty Eight**

It happens again the next night

**Day One Hundred and Sixty Nine**

And the night after that

**Day one Hundred and Seventy**

And the next night as well.

**Day One Hundred and Seventy Four**

She's stopped fighting it now.

**Day One Hundred and Eighty Six**

And by now, his room is hers.

**Day Two Hundred and Twenty One**

Her eyes open to sunlight streaming in from the window above his bed. Her body aches in the worst ways possible. Bruises line across her skin, from her arms to her legs to her torso. He doesn't hit her, never, but his grip is harsh. Stop making excuses for him, she snaps at herself but she can't help it. She doesn't know why but she can't. The sheet skims across her naked figure as she turns over, trying to soak in the rays of the sun which are warming her up in the cool weather. Her breath hitches as she spots him beside her.

He. Is. Beautiful.

The sheet is up to the middle of his back, but his strong arms are out, curling under the pillow. Flat on his stomach, every breath of his making the pale fringe fly upwards. Every time it catches the sunlight, it shines: like a halo. A halo on a demon. How ironic. Her eyes travel down his arms to his back. Runes crisscross his skin, intermingled with scars. There is the scar where Jace drove the knife into his back, and there are whip marks. They look like silver on his already milky skin tone, puckered at the edges. They look like those drawings she'd seen of angels who'd had their wings ripped out.

Fallen angels.

She doesn't think before her hands reach out, her fingers tracing a scar. She's touched it for a second before his eyes fly open. A deep abyss drowns her and she yanks her hand back, turning away. A flush covers her neck. She tries to move away but his arm is around her, pulling her body close to his.

"You don't have to do that you know," he mumbles under his breath. There is a soft kiss being placed on her brow, but she frowns anyway.

"I don't know what you mean," she sulks despite not wanting to sound like that.

"You don't have to shy away from me. You can touch me. It's not a crime."

"You'd know all about crimes wouldn't you," she sneers. His eyes flash.

"Wanting my sister is no crime."

"Actually, it is. It's illegal," she spells out, trying to push him off her but it's pointless. He's got her where he wants her, and she's too given in to fight back.

"To mundanes. And maybe to regular Shadowhunters. But we're anything but regular, Clary. You and I, we're Morgensterns. We're angel and demon," he says and then he's hovering over her. His weight is balanced on his elbows but his skin is pressing into her and she gasps at the sudden movement. His eyes hold a passion she's never seen in him before and he bends down, kissing her nose. A sob builds in her throat. He's being too loving, too sweet. He's violating her mind, her body and her heart and then making her feel like it's the right thing. It isn't right. It isn't fair.

"We're complete opposites. You and lover boy? You're too good, too bright. You'd burn each other out. I won't. I'm dark and you're my light, Clary. We're halves of a whole, when will you see that?" he asks, and she swears his breath catches. "When will you see that I really do belong to you, and I all I want is for you to belong to me too?"

She stares at him, her heart thudding in her ribcage. This isn't right, he is her brother, this isn't right. But wasn't blood different for Nephilim than for humans? Weren't they all part angel? And weren't her and Jonathan so far experimented with that they barely resembled the other at all? Wasn't he too demonic and her too angelic? She swallows, her fluttering heartbeat making her throat cinch shut.

"Clary," he whispers, lowering his head to brush his lips against hers.

"Jonathan," she mumbles back and he looks up, surprised at her response. "Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern," she says. His eyes flare with emotion, emotion which makes black and silver mix together in a weird metallic symphony. It's beautiful. It's toxic. Her fingers flutter across his jaw, and his eyes close.

"Clary," another voice whispers, but it's inside her mind. It's his voice, her Jace. The one she belongs to. Guilt brings a bout of shame. Acid bubbles inside her abdomen and she harshly pushes him off her.

"I have to go," she mumbles before she runs to the bathroom and empties her stomach into the toilet.

**Day Two Hundred and Forty**

"Tell me," she says, abruptly. He turns his gaze to her, confused. She's seated on the bed, still unclothed, but the sheets tucked nicely around her. He's bathed and fed already, getting dressed for the day. He's combing his hair with his fingers, his reflection the only thing she can see. Apart from those scars across his back.

"Tell you what?" he says, looking at her through the mirror as he continues to set his hair right. She wishes he would just leave it; it would settle down flat on its own anyway. She stumbles a bit in her thoughts, shocked that she knows this about him.

"About you. Your childhood. Father – what he did," she says thrusting her chin in the direction of his back. He turns around abruptly and crosses the room, sitting in front of her. "You mean that?" he asks, his eyes guarded. "Do you really want to know?" he asks, chills running down her spine from his cold tone.

"Yes," she breathes and she's certain he's smiling. "Yes, I really want to know."

"Okay."

**Day Two Hundred and Forty Three**

They're sitting in the lawn again, but this time, he's less conserved about his posture. His head lies in her lap and she doesn't even bother pushing him off. Her eyes are too heavy from the warm sunlight and honeyed toffees she's eaten earlier. The weight in her lap makes her want to sleep more, just sleep. Not dream, not cower, just simply drown in darkness until she's Clarissa no more. She doesn't want to feel what she feels. She doesn't want to feel the emotions of this new girl she's somehow been turned into, after months of captivity. She's lying in the sun with her tormentor but she's enjoying it. She's no longer that self respecting woman she thought she was once. She'd rather just be gone; cease to exist.

"Clary," she hears and she hums the indication that she is listening.

"Clary," he says again and she wrenches her eyelids apart, blinked.

"What?" she whispers, not wanting to break the silence.

"Did you mean it?"

"What?"

He pulls himself higher in her lap so that he's resting against her better, so that he can turn his head to her. "When you and Jace and I were traveling, I asked you. I asked you if we'd been brought up differently, if you could've loved me. And you said it was a given that you would. Did you mean it?"

Suddenly, she's not sleepy anymore.

"Jona-"

"No. I have to know. I mean, were you just saying it or did you mean it. Would you really love me if you'd known me your whole life, if we'd grown up together?"

"Of course, I would," she admits.

"And could you learn to love me, if you could stay with me for the rest of our lives?" he asks.

No, no, no, no, no her mind screams but her heart thuds once more. Tears fill her eyes and a sob rises to her lips as she admits. "Yes. Maybe. Maybe I could."

He smiles.

"Why?" she whimpers through her tears and he raises himself to see her face better.

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because maybe I have learned to love you too."

**Day Two Hundred and Fifty**

The dining room is surprisingly empty as they sit for dinner, her plate forcibly filled with all sorts of meat and vegetables. Soft jazz music plays in the background and there are no guards in sight. She's done with her meal but he doesn't approve of how much is left so she swirls it around, pretending to eat.

"What does _Erchomai_ mean?" she asks suddenly. He stops halfway through his food, frowning.

"Why?"

"You wrote it on that note. When you left those wings in the Institute," she whispers. "I don't know what it means."

"It's Greek. It means 'I am coming'," he shrugs.

"Then why didn't you?" she asks.

"Why didn't I what?"

"Come," she says. He lifts a sly brow and she flushes with annoyance and embarrassment. "You know what I mean."

"I know, but I don't know what you're asking."

"I mean, you didn't attack. You didn't attack us until a year later, when you got me and then you haven't attacked since- that I know of. Why the warning?" she presses. He reaches forward, grabbing her hand which was resting on the cutlery and she nearly jumps.

"I thought that much was obvious. I did come. I came for you."

**Day Two Hundred and Seventy Five**

They sleep together again but this time he doesn't need to do much to get her to respond.

**Day Two Hundred and Eighty**

_Dear Jace,_

_I miss you. Please come find me. Don't you want to find me anymore?  
_

_I love you, Jace.  
_

**Day Three Hundred and Twenty Nine.**

They're in his room, kissing. She still feels like it's wrong, like toxic sludge is pouring into her veins but her body is now used to it, so it doesn't take much for her to let that disgusting feeling go. His hand is warm on her back, pulling her close. She doesn't know why but she wore a summer dress today and now it's leaving her legs bare. His fingers are running across it and –

His groans and her soft whimpers are cut off by the blaring of an alarm. It isn't like a phone alarm or a fire alarm. It's like the kind of screeching red which they show in movies when banks are broken into. He pushes her away, a worried, shocked and angry look in his eyes. Her heart sinks because she realizes something is wrong, very wrong. That, or something for once is very very right. He gets off the bed in one smooth motion and buttons his shirt up.

"What's happening?" she asks, getting up and pulling her dress down. He doesn't answer, except he presses a button on the wall and then starts looking through his keys which are kept on the nightstand.

"Jonathan," she whispers but he ignores her again. She can hear gears clicking and moving behind the walls and she realizes it's some sort of mechanism embedded in the house. "Jonathan what's happening?" she asks, an absurd fear embedding itself inside her. He looks nervous. If she needs to fight something how will she? She's all skin and bones now. She hasn't trained in months. She's forgotten what it feels like to hold a weapon. How will she live? Does she want to live?

He gets up, finding the right key and throws open his closet doors. It's a walk in and she trails after him until he finds a discrete keyhole in the wall, enters the key and a pin code and the entire wall slides open. Her jaw drops. The wall is covered in weapons of every shape and type and he grabs some of many kinds, placing them in his sleeve, in his belt, in his boots.

"Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern!" she cries out and he finally looks up, taking in her panicked expression. "What's happening?"

"Our security's been breached," he says dryly, but she can sense something else, some underlying storm behind his words.

"What," she says, dumbly.

"I said – never mind. Just stay here, don't move. Nobody except I can get in here, okay. Don't try anything no matter what you hear and don't leave until I come and get you, okay?" he says and she's so shaken she just nods. He nods once and walks to door but not before turning around.

"Clary," he says and she looks up. He opens his mouth as if to say something but then shakes his head and walks off. And then she's stuck there, waiting in silence.

x-x

Her eyes keep going to the clock. It's been twenty minutes but it feels like twenty hours. She can sense time again, like she could right in the beginning, on day one. Her heart is beating like a time bomb and she's waiting for it to explode. There is a crash outside the bedroom window. She's on her feet, old instincts kicking in like lightning. There is a pause as she hears more gears click in along the papered walls. There are muffled voices, and then a bright blue light. Nothing happens for two seconds. And then she hears the sizzling, inside the walls, as if something is melting. Then the window crashes, spraying the room in shattered glass..

She lunges for the wall, her knees shaking but her hands steady as she hears footsteps in the room. She itches for a weapon but the wall has closed itself and she has nothing in front of her but boots and clothes. If she was in her room she'd at least have hair pins but she doesn't and she's shaking. She's defenseless. She's going to die.

"Wait, somebody's in there. I think I hear heavy breathing," comes a voice. Her hand should fly to her mouth to stop her deep breaths. But that voice. That voice she knows so well. Her breaths turn into gasps because she must be dreaming, she has to be dreaming. She slides down the wall, a sob ripping from her throat, a sob of pain and of relief. The closet door is thrown open and she meets blue eyes and dark hair.

"Clary!" she hears and she throws herself forward.

Alec catches her on instinct, his arms supporting her and oh God he smells like Lightwood and their training room and New York and everything safe. "Alec, oh god, Alec," she sobs as he pulls her out of the closet.

"Clary!" another voice says and she turns to the glittering warlock who's got a look of genuine relief and love on his face and she's sobbing harder. "I never –I never thought I'd see any of you again," she cries into Alec's shoulder and he doesn't even stiffen at her affection towards him.

"It's okay. You're okay. We're all here, we're going to get you out."

_We're all here. We're all here._

"You mean –"

"He's here, Clary. And he's fighting. He's fighting each and every one of them for taking you away from him."

"He came for me," she whispers.

"Of course he did, silly," Magnus says, putting an arm around her and she sees his expression at how her shoulder blades are sticking out. "He went crazy, you have no idea. But later, we'll talk later. Now, we leave."

"Do you have a weapon?" Alec asks, but she shakes her head. He pulls out two small daggers and a long knife from his belt and hands them to her. She feel awkward but it's like cycling. You never forget how to do it. She tucks the daggers in her dress strap and the long knife is clutched in her hand.

"We need to figure out –"

"I know the entire layout of the house," she says. They turn to her.

"Brilliant, Clary. That's brilliant."

x-x

She's sticking as close to Alec and Magnus as possible but it doesn't long for her to figure out that nobody's attacking her. Of course they wouldn't. Nephilim think of her as their own, a prisoner. Jonathan's men consider her as his sister and his partner. But that doesn't mean I can't get caught in a crossfire, she thinks, as she ducks a flying knife.

"Where would Jonathan go?" she asks herself.

"Clary!" somebody shouts and she turns around to see Simone. Simone is rushing towards her but then a golden slither wraps around her and she shrieks in pain, her knees giving out. Clary stares in horror as the light leaves her eyes, the last look in them of pure betrayal. Izzy stands behind her, whip in hand.

"Izzy," Clary whispers. She feels torrents of guilt as well as relief as she runs to her friend and they clasp hands for a minute before following Alec and Magnus.

The corridors are almost entirely empty now, littered with bodies and demon blood. She swallows as she runs down the main hall towards the entrance of the house. She can hear them running behind her and she pushes harder. Suddenly, everything depends on her. They saved her, now she has to get them out. She sees the white wood of the door but before she reaches it, a figure hurtles into her from the side, sending them to the ground. She shrieks as the knife flew out of her hand and she falls, strong arms around her catching her as she rolls over. The air leaves her lungs as the figure falls on top of her, crushing her with it's weight.

"Clary, you idiot! I TOLD YOU STAY INSIDE!" it says and she gasps.

"Jonathan," she whimpers, feeling his blood soak her body. Before he can say anything, he's ripped off of her and thrown into the wall.

"You son of a bitch. You don't control her," comes another voice and she feels her heart stop. She feels it fly to her throat and her head feels light. Tears spring into her eyes and she pulls herself up to see Jace pinning Jonathan to the wall, his dagger and Seraph Blade digging into his neck.

x-x

Dizziness, it's all she feels. Seeing Jace and seeing Jonathan locked in combat. Suddenly, all the months of torment and pain and trauma she's felt come crashing down on her. Arms, cold arms catch her as she sinks to the ground. "You're okay, it's okay," they say and she falls into her best friend's embrace, his vampire strength holding her up. Black spots are all she sees and she aware that she's shaking, her bones rattling and her teeth clicking together.

"We have to get her out of here," somebody says. Another grunt and muffled scuffling.

"NO! CLARY! CLARY YOU PROMISED ! CLARY DON'T –" there's another grunt of flesh hitting flesh but he doesn't stop shouting.

"CLARISSA, YOU PROMISED YOU'D ACCEPT ME! DON'T LEAVE ME!" the voice shouts.

She turns around and sees those betrayed black eyes before the darkness finally welcomes her with open arms.

**Day Three Hundred and Thirty.**

She's sobbing. She's sobbing and no matter how hard she tries she can't stop. She's lying in her room – _her room_ – and it's dark but it's enough to feel like she's finally home. Jace doesn't leave her, not once. He's still holding her as she cries into his shirt, her body wracking. "I – I – I –" she tries but he just shushes her.

"It's okay. Don't say anything. You're here, I'm here, we're okay. We're all okay, Clary. You're okay," he says and she can tell that even his voice is thick with emotion.

"I love you, Jace," she cries and he kisses her forehead and she feels a teardrop hit her temple.

"I know. I love you too, so much. You have no idea how much I've waited for this day," he mumbles into her hair, pulling her closer.

"What took you so long?" she asks, her tears making her voice sound like a child.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I swear Clary, I wanted to jump into that portal right after your feet left the ground. But they wouldn't let me. They said I had to follow protocol. And then when they couldn't find you, the Clave moved on to other attacks. They said that you were gone and since there was no way to track you, we couldn't do anything. Magnus' magic wouldn't work because of the wards on the place. We had to physically comb through every place and evidence we could find, whatever we came close to."

"Where did you find me?" she asks.

"You don't – you were a few miles away from the border of Turkey."

Turkey, she blanched. "The Clave gave up on me," she cries, feeling a deep rooted sense of loathing and betrayal.

"I know, baby, I know. I was so angry, I almost killed them right there. They said that – it doesn't matter, okay. You're here and you're not leaving ever again," he said, clutching her tightly. But she doesn't listen, she doesn't need him to complete the sentence. She would be considered an easy accomplice since her kidnapper was her brother. Who's to say brother didn't lure sister over to his side. Her mind flashes to all the times he'd seduced her and another shudder rips through her – equal parts longing and disgust. And guilt, so much guilt.

"Shhh," Jace shushes, rubbing her arms but she just pulls back to stare at those golden eyes, the ones which fill her with love and safety.

"I'm so sorry Jace," she mumbles and he frowns.

"What? No! You don't have to apologize, Clary, Angel knows you don't," he whispers, kissing her brow.

"I cheated on you," she sobs and she feels him go still before his arms are tight around her. So tight she can't breathe but she doesn't care because she holds him just as tightly.

"Clary, I swear I want to make him pay for touching you. You didn't cheat on me. You didn't do anything."

"I should've – I – I didn't fight back," she sobs into his chest.

"So what? That doesn't make it any less of a crime on his part," he says. "Clary, look at me," and she does."You didn't do this. You were a victim, it wasn't your fault."

She doesn't want to say she liked it sometimes, that sometimes his arms felt right, that right now she's thinking of him.

She takes a shuddering breath. "I wonder how many years he'll get in the Silent City for doing what he did," she mumbles.

Jace doesn't say anything but it's far too silent.

"Jace?"

"Clary. Sebastian's dead."

The world tilts unexpectedly.

**Day Three Hundred and Thirty Two**

_Dear Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern,_

_You lied. You said you'd learned to love me. _

_You lied. _

_If you loved me you wouldn't have died._

**Day Three Hundred and Thirty Three**

The white dress she's wearing feels like chords wrapped around her lungs. She should feel satisfaction, she should feel relief, she should relish this. But pain licks her body from inside out like her flames in a fire cracker. Jace isn't here, he doesn't want to come but it's okay. She has to do this alone. He agreed to come for her, but she said no. She can't stand to let him see her say goodbye. Her mother is there, but she's standing to the corner with nothing to say.

Clary walks forward, placing the folded paper on his wrapped body. His eyes are closed and she pushes the pale fringe off his eyes with soft fingers.

"Ave atque vale, frater," she whispers with a kiss to his brow. Hail and farewell, brother. She stands there for two minutes, two hours, two weeks before she feels her mothers arms pull her back. She struggles for a moment but the pyre is already set on fire.

He was supposed to burn this world down with her at his side.

Then why are they the ones burning inside out?

**Day Three Hundred and Thirty Four**

She screams and cries all night. She knows she shouldn't. But she does.

* * *

_**A/N: okay there are a few things I want to make clear about this story and the topics brought up in it.  
**_

_**1. That Rapunzel quote..it's actually a book. The Beautiful Between by Alyssa B. Sheinmel.  
**_

_**2. The rape. I know it's a common misconception, but climaxing during rape doesn't always mean that you enjoyed it or wanted it. We are all human and our bodies have chemicals which react in certain ways when tampered with or instigated. Hers were, which is why she didn't resist much against him when he raped her. But it was still rape and despite her not having fought back, it was very much wrong. Rape is a serious issue, which I would never dare trivialize for the sake of plot devices.  
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_**3. The Stockholm Syndrome. There's a reason this story didn't have a smooth flow and it jumped time periods. Clary's emotions, when she's a captive, are all over the place and she doesn't know what's right or wrong. Her mind is shutting down from shock and trauma, as are her judgments. She knows this boy is supposed to be her brother so she's forgiving towards him, she's also confused by her reactions to their physical relations. She's not very educated on such matters, so she naturally assumes it isn't entirely rape because she's not saying anything. She's blaming herself. But those are her thoughts as a victim. Clary is a victim of Rape and Stockholm Syndrome. Everybody reacts differently, as did she.  
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_**4. I do not condone relationships like Sebastian and Clary in real life - ones based on abuse and sympathy and forced emotions. It is a story, I have taken creative license.  
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_**5. This is not beta read, I apologize for any errors I may have overlooked.  
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_**6. Do read and review.  
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